


with silence i'm becoming fragile

by grumkin_snark



Series: Maekar x Dyanna [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 08:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: They’re both gone now, and he wonders how the sun can rise in the east when he can barely breathe.





	with silence i'm becoming fragile

“Anna?” Even to his own ears, he sounds weary. Broken. “Anna, something’s happened.”  


For a full three seconds, he expects to hear her reply, to see her emerge in the sheer dressing gowns she liked to wear for him, to see her smile that dazzling, slightly crooked smile that had made him blush like a green boy the first time she’d sent it his way.

For a full three seconds, he anticipates her asking him what happened even though of course she’d have already known— _everyone_ knows, by now—and drawing him into her, an embrace of understanding and warmth despite how all those years Baelor had been like a brother to her.

For a full three seconds, he forgets.

And when silence greets him instead of her, he _remembers_ , and it’s like losing her, losing _Baelor_ , all over again. Mother had tried to talk to him, had tried to comfort him, but it wasn’t the same. Mother doesn’t know how deep his inferiority went; Dyanna did.

Dyanna knew all of it, tempered his rages, calmed his fears. Mother couldn’t understand this soul-aching _guilt_. Dyanna would, he knows she would. She’d listen, then take his hand and simply look at him with those deep purple eyes, the look that never failed to make him feel like maybe things could turn out all right. But she’s not here. She hasn’t been here for twenty-three months and twelve days.

He sits heavily on the edge of the bed they’d shared for seventeen years, staring at the side table where she used to keep all her lotions and oils and jewelry. He still has one of her perfume bottles hidden away, though he has never been able to bear opening it. He hasn’t a clue why he’s held onto it, at that. Aerion would think him weak, if he knew.

_Aerion._

He wonders what Dyanna would say of their son. Aerion had behaved himself in her presence, respectfully kissed her cheek when he saw her in the morning, but had she known who he was even then? Who he’d turn out to be? Maekar certainly hadn’t; or, perhaps, had blinded himself to it. He wonders what she’d think of _any_ of their children, were she here.

Daeron, with his drunken stupors, stupors that had only gotten worse since his mother died. She’d always been able to soothe away the worst of his visions, convinced him to drink water instead of wine. Now, Maekar can’t even recall the last time Daeron’s cup _didn’t_  have some kind of alcohol in it.

Aerion, with his cruelty, his utter disregard for others, his perpetual sneer.

Aemon, far away at the Citadel learning things far beyond Maekar’s comprehensions. He’d been a bright boy from the start, would hole up with Elaena more often than not as she shared her wisdom, but Maekar couldn’t keep up no matter how hard he tried.

Daella, impulsive and sharp, who had inherited her mother’s willfulness and her father’s stubbornness, who obeys him no more than mountains obey the wind.

Aegon…gods, where to  _start_? Egg had been old enough when Dyanna died to want to know _why_ , wanted answers no one could give, and Maekar had been too consumed in his heartache to pay as much attention to the boy as he ought.

And Rhae, dearest Rhae, who tends to everyone’s hurts but so rarely shares her own.

 _Have I ruined them?_ he wonders. _What kind of father exiles his own son? What kind of father lets his nine-year-old squire with a no-name hedge knight?_

_What kind of man kills his own brother?_

“It was an accident,” he tells Dyanna’s shade. “It was an _accident_.”

He listens, harder than he ever has, just for the faintest sound that he could pretend is Dyanna, that just for a moment he could hear her say, _I know it was, my love, I know._ But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, because she’s long dead and now his brother is, too. His brother, who had sat with him after Dyanna succumbed to the Stranger, who had weathered his stony silence, his thundering anger, and, eventually, his sobs.

He remembers that all-consuming grief, the despair not only at losing Dyanna but the prospect of raising their six children without her. Mother and Father had helped, and Rhaegel too in his way, but Baelor had been the light that led him through the crushing darkness. He can’t even repay the favor for Jena and the boys, not when their suffering is _his fault_. Jena and Valarr won’t so much as look at him, and only hours ago Matarys had jutted out his chin and wept, _I hate you, uncle._

It had hurt; not just because it came from Matarys, who so often used to tirelessly follow him around asking endless questions, but because with his dark hair, darker eyes, and bronze skin, the child is the very image of Baelor, and of Mother before him. It was as if Baelor himself were saying the words, and it had felt like his chest was staved in.

To make matters worse, Brynden had informed him shortly before that that Daeron had taken to drinking half the taverns dry, far in excess even for him, and Maekar is too much of a coward to ask if it’s because Daeron had dreamed of the trial at Ashford. Too much of a coward to hear from his son’s lips that it wouldn’t have mattered if he _had_ asked because he wouldn’t have listened.

Dyanna was the only one who had a shadow of a chance at deciphering the images that flashed through Daeron’s head, Dyanna and sometimes Brynden, but to Maekar it was only ever gibberish, and in this…gods, the Crone herself could have heralded Baelor’s death and Maekar would have told her she was stark raving mad. Who could possibly fell Baelor Breakspear, the Warrior incarnate? The only man Maekar had met who could combine strength and pragmatism with unerring chivalry and kindness?

Only a little brother, it seems. A little brother whose jealousy is the only thing people ever see, not the love.

“Anna, what am I to do?” he asks, staring at the dressing screen as though if he concentrates hard enough, she’ll appear. As though she’ll walk across the room and open the door, and there will stand Baelor, hale and healthy, his head bandaged but his body whole. “Brother, help me.”

There is no answer, and for the first time, Maekar feels utterly alone.


End file.
